When rosy-finger’d Flora from her urn Strew’d earth with flowers, and pearl’d the azure deep, While the red sun in Leo fierce did burn, At depth of noon, the saint his limbs would steep In the transparent waves, where breezes creep O’er Fidrey’s sacred isle; meanwhile, the fry Sported around in shoals, as glad to keep Their summer sabbath:—the sea-calf roll’d by, Forsook her briny pool, and lick’d the patriarch dry.